


you threw stones at the starlight

by Anonymous



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (very subtle), Canon Compliant, Childhood Friends, College, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Growing Up Together, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Iwaizumi Hajime's Pet Hedgehog, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-16 03:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10562502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: On kisses, holding hands, and names, not necessarily in that order.





	1. Polaris

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CheekyBrunette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheekyBrunette/gifts).



> shout-outs:   
>  \- thanks to Jazz, Dawn, and Molly for forever putting up with me and always being so supportive. Jazz also read this fic many times and helped a lot with making it coherent.   
>  \- thanks to ssho, my exchange beta, for working with me and beta'ing not one but _two_ fics.   
>  \- thanks to French for just talking and sharing with me?? i'm just so happy to have you as a friend. (you're a wonderful friend.)

“Hajime, dear,” his mother says, and Hajime glances at her with a start, because even at five years old he knows _that tone_.

With it, she directs her gaze at another mother across the yard, past the adults and kids and the curious in-betweeners gathered for this _all-welcomed welcome party_ of the neighborhood proportion. When Hajime catches sight of said mother, he thinks she is not being terribly kind to her child (he must be, for how similar they look).

He’s the brown-haired kid beside her, huddled in a bland sweatshirt with his face all scrunched up like holding back a deluge of tears and screams.

At the edge of failing, too, at that. So Hajime tries for _that look_ as well, the one he’s picked up from his own mother as she pairs it up with a jagged sweet smile. Her tone feels more tremendous, somehow. “Go play with that boy over there, okay? I’m sure he’d love to meet a new friend.”

Hajime glances up at her. He isn't fond of crybabies, Hajime wants to say. When he turns back to the scene, though, the other boy is biting at his bottom lip and clenching his shaking hands into white-knuckled fists, a feat of strength of its own kind—

He decides, then, in all newfound sureness that five-year-olds often _just get_ , that it is okay for boys to cry, sometimes.

(This is just one of the things Oikawa Tooru will teach him in their time together, aside from some _inexplicable_ amounts of patience Hajime will develop in dealing with the likes of _Oikawa Tooru_.)

“Okay,” Hajime tells her, a sort of determined resolution growing in chest. She smiles warmly, ruffles his hair despite his exasperated protest—“'Kaasan! Now it's all sticking out and spiky!”—and nudges him toward the potential _new friend_.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

(

Hajime has no idea what he's diving into.

Because faster than he—or anyone, really—could ever see it coming, this _new friend_ accelerates into the glorious mess of _best friends_.

And, well. There's laughable chance of going back to peaceful times, after that.

)

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Hi. I’m Iwaizumi. Let's play.” This is said alongside a scowl, _because he doesn't like playing pretend, anyway_. Hajime grabs onto the boy's hand, still balled painfully tight, and tugs him away from the looming chaperone red in the face. He trusts the spontaneity that comes with their age to let them get away with impromptu rebellions a while longer, and so he grants no glances behind him, only staring right on ahead, and has faith in the other boy to do the same. _Oikawa Tooru_ , as Hajime will later come to know of the name like he’s learned to breathe, trips over himself once or twice, unhinged by the unprecedented escape. He picks up Hajime’s pace soon enough, easing to run by his side. At five, they have yet to learn when to stop.

“There's something on your cheek,” Hajime blurts out, when they’ve finally slowed down to settle at a swing set in the park a bit farther from home. From his seat to Hajime's left, toes of his shoes brushing packed sand as he sways with hands wrapped tight around the swing's chains, Oikawa has that cheek turned away from him. Hajime's caught a glimpse of the blooming pinkish-red across it; stinging, even just by the look of it. Hajime isn't a really good conversation-maker, or at maintaining one.

 _Tooru_ , as the boy had mumbled out at the park’s gates, just _pouts_. Hajime thinks he's never seen someone puff their cheeks out this much, not unlike that hamster in a manga he once read.

“You kidnapped me,” he accuses, blowing a breath in the huffiest huff.

Hajime blinks back at him. _Well._ “I’m—”

“Are you an alien, Iwa-chan?”

“ _What_.” Is _alien_ an insult?

 _Wait, don't call me that_ , is what he's about to say, right on the front edge of his tongue (because, well. Hajime's always been _Hajim_ e—or Iwaizumi, sometimes, and his father always presses that such endearments are meant for girls). Tooru only tips his chin up to the sky, daring to not squint in the face of a cloudless dusk, like he might take in the expanse of it in all its entirety.

“Aliens come from the stars,” Tooru tells him, pointer finger leveled at some juncture in an edgeless universe. “They visit you in the middle of the night to abduct you and take you to places far in outer space. Away from _here_.”

“...It's not night yet, dumbass,” Hajime finds the voice to say.

Tooru is all over the place, and irritatingly vague, and starting to annoy Hajime a little. But Hajime keeps the sight of him, his round-eyed wonder at the boundless adventures in things like _outer space_ , despite a stinging cheek, and determines to let Tooru fly with it, for now.

When Tooru finally humbles himself from such destinations, he glances at Hajime with a smile light-years too harried but luminous all the same. “You brought me away from there, Iwa-chan,” he chimes in, the stretch of his gnawed lips now crinkling his eyes, wideness tapered down to something acute, and with this Hajime realizes not everything better comes in colossal smiles.

“Don’t call me that,” Hajime says back, and boosts Tooru’s swing with a kick when the other boy just grins, sticking his tongue out in some playful tease.

“It's a cute nickname!” declares Tooru. “Just like you, hedgehog-chan!”

(Hajime does find hedgehogs cute.

That doesn’t mean he’ll _ever_ admit it to Tooru, though.)

After the sun has bid its goodbye for the day, when they’ve begrudgingly relented the challenge to see who can reach highest in their swing, Hajime jumps down from his and goes to push Tooru’s, _just because_. Tooru yelps in surprise at first, but shrieks and giggles as they break through _higher and higher_ , like he might catch flickering stars and the peeping moon and grander schemes beyond. Hajime finds the weirdest strength in this, in the laughter and grins they share.

On _the way home_ , perhaps more on impulse than anything thought-out, Hajime presses a quick kiss to that stinging cheek, just a chaste peck he’d later deny for the rest of his life (and that Oikawa would proudly remind him and _everyone_ of).

Under the break of glow between fussy streetlights, it’s hard to determine who’s more flushed in the face, but Hajime catches Tooru’s smile in all its blooming clarity, anyway.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

(

And this is how Hajime learned to breathe: from a womb’s inert safety and unthanked warmth to the heart-stuttering jolt of drawing air into the rawness of his lungs for the very first time, crying, wailing;

—finding it _soothing_ , in the end, and now wanting it to fill every space of his life.

)

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Can you not call me Tooru anymore?”

Oikawa says this on their walk to Kitagawa Daiichi, another _first day_ since grade school or Lil’ Tykes Volleyball Club. At the abruptness of it, by every means _unexpected_ of Oikawa Tooru— _especially_ of Oikawa Tooru, who has a fondness for inventing unwarranted nicknames on-the-go, who puts up theatrics of being overly affectionate—Hajime halts in his track. Peering to his side to where the other boy is, he ends up with eyes on the road ahead of them again, when Oikawa shows no signs of slowing down.

“Why?” Hajime just asks, past Oikawa's affinity to hide these matters of himself; Hajime's resilient, too, that way.

“Hm. We’re getting a little too old for casual first-names,” Oikawa answers. His steps are light and weighed down.

“That's stupid,” Hajime retorts, a flare of indignation and something else he’d rather not dwell on reduced to those two words. _Shame_ , if he dares admit to himself.

_Iwa-chan, why would you wanna stop holding hands?_

_Because two boys don't hold each other’s hands, Tooru._

Oikawa stops in pretense of paying visit to a cat by the bus shelter. He goes to kneel, cares not for the dust or grime scuffing the knees of his new uniform, and stretches out a hand for the cat to pause its self-grooming and hiss at. “You know how it sounds, Iwa-chan. Two boys, _best friends_ , walk to school together every day—they join the volleyball club together, spend lunch breaks together, go home and study and play together. All the sorts.”

 _Together_. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Like there was nothing wrong with holding hands and cheek kisses?”

Hajime bites hard at the inside of his mouth. Oikawa leans forward, inches closer to the feline by the scrape of his sneakers on pavement, the drag of knees that had been grazed and bruised and kissed better by Hajime countless times. Hajime thinks of cats’ nine lives and sixth senses, their propensity to fall from high perches only to shrug off the extraordinary feat with a sprint the other way, continuing on with life in the streets. He wonders about the truth of that _sixth sense_ ; even the cat by the bus shelter, by now familiar of Oikawa's presence and inclined to nuzzle into hands starting to callous, arches its back at the approach, bristling and yowling. _Liar liar._

Without following any sort of cues, Hajime treads on as the cat inevitably lashes out. A passing sedan’s rumble covers up the beginning series of curses, the distinct pained hiss that always sends Hajime running to check.

The all-knowing cat has darted away when Hajime crouches beside Oikawa, slinging his schoolbag to his front, unzipping it to dig around for band-aids. (He’d learned fast into their _together_ to keep some within reach.) On the subject of _growing up_ , he chooses one with stupid green aliens and cartoonish five-pointed stars, anyway. Because past heights starting to tower and a middle school’s first day, hands not held and kisses refrained, and all the small changes soon to pile up, some parts of them should stay the same.

“Holding hands or kisses or first-names won't change us,” Hajime says, past Oikawa’s whining at the wound that just sounds theatrical. This, Hajime expects, but he wonders if he wants to make sure whether Oikawa got himself scratched-up on purpose. It's on the back of his hand, not that much of a hinder for playing volleyball. Today is also the audition for the club, after all. An utmost importance for Oikawa (or what Oikawa feels is of utmost importance).

No matter the destination—or the lack of it, since _the journey_ is important, too—their walk has always been filled with chatter and banter, shoves and pushes and pulls, or just hums for the wind to chase. Oikawa's silence now seems tumultuous. When Hajime realizes that he himself has not said another word, either, still holding Oikawa’s hand and thumbing at the garish band-aid, he muses if he's the reason for the hush.

“I don't want you to get into trouble with your parents,” Oikawa whispers into the close space between them. “Last time, I saw—”

“You’ll still be calling me Iwa-chan, then?”

Hajime might've stumbled out the nickname, awkward-sounding when it comes from anyone other than Oikawa, and feels the tip of his ears go warm at the request-like-question. Oikawa just stares at him, through him and into him and past all that. With voice raised over any screech of car tires or a pair of hearts beating too loud, he says, “ _Of course_.”

“ _Iwa-chan_ ,” comes the heralding of the torrent, not long after they’d gotten up and continued on their path. Oikawa latches on to the name like he does the crook of Hajime’s arm. “Iwa-chan. _Iwa-chan, Iwa-chanIwa-chan—_ ”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Holding hands or kisses or first-names won't change us._

Would it, though, when he _just wants_ to hold hands and kiss and say first-names?

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When Hajime sees Oikawa outside his window in the middle of the heaviest rain, he hopes it's just his imagination, _because surely he’s not stupid enough to go out in this weather_. But he's there, right beyond the window, still in Kitaiichi’s dark blue and white tracksuit. Under the icy deluge, Oikawa pretends not to shiver.

Hajime slides the glass to the side with a jerk of his hand, the frames giving up a _crack_ at the hurriedness of it. Splatters of rain and brewing thunders drown the spaces of his bedroom, howling over the music that blares from his headphones in a routine to put the storms’ roars behind him. Hajime wills himself to not flinch in the face of it, _not in this moment_ , and later on he’d think how some fears can become irrelevant under the urgency of others.

Oikawa is tall, his body growing faster than he can adapt to, more gawky than anyone can glimpse of _the rising volleyball star_ ; but he curls into himself, small enough to slip through the window. Past any growth spurts and growing up, Hajime deems this a routine to keep.

He fetches a towel from the bathroom down the hallway, steps masked by the storm. He throws it over Oikawa's head and rubs with fervor, just so that Oikawa will whine and struggle back with a pout. Oikawa goes to dry himself off, and Hajime slings the fresh clothes he’s gathered at him in return for the mess in his wake.

“She calls me that,” Oikawa confesses three years late, under the coaxing darkness of a blanket fort and loose glow of a dimmed laptop screen playing some childhood's favorite. Things that stay the same. “ _Tooru_. So it sounds all wrong now.

“Iwa-chan is different, though. Iwa-chan is special—”

“You're putting too much credit in me,” Hajime interrupts, can't help but to, just so he can hear himself over the pounding in his chest. ( _“Iwa-chan is special—_ ”) For Oikawa, a limit had been breached, a dam splintering apart, tsunamis kept restrained far too long. Hajime could still hear echoes of the breaking point, even when he wasn't there for the fallout.

_“Stop with this volleyball nonsense, Tooru! Three years and you can't even make it to Nationals even once!”_

_You weren't there for him._

( _Some best friend you are_.)

Oikawa lifts his head from Hajime’s shoulder, displacing the comforter wrapped around the both of them. Hajime shivers at the loss of warmth, the brush of Oikawa's soft hair against the sensitive nape of his neck, still smelling of drenched in rain and a hint of singed ozone. Another crash of such thunder pierces through the house's walls. Hajime does not flit his sight to him ( _some best friend you are_ ) but he gives in, still, when lithe fingers graze at his jaw and turn it to the side by the gentlest orbit.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa starts. “You damn _silly_ ,” he says, and Hajime thinks of _things changing_ , with how he feels little urge to whack Oikawa upside the head for that. “You deserve _everything_.”

Hajime grits his teeth. _So do you._

_So do you, so much more._

Oikawa doesn’t let him ponder on that. He tucks right back into the crook of Hajime's neck, closer as they can dare.

(They’ve latched on too tight and a mother tells them, “Two boys shouldn't hug, Hajime.”)

“Except for your face,” Oikawa adds, casted in the muted, shifting lights of some action scene unraveling on the screen, his eyes half-lidded. “You can't get not-ugly all of a sudden. I hate dealing with rivals.”

Hajime snorts. “What, like you don't have that horde of a fanclub yourself?”

“Hm. There's just not enough of me for everyone.” Oikawa sighs, as if conceding to all the girls and boys and people vying for his attention. “It's the least I can do.”

He snuggles closer, anyway.

In nights like now, inside the comfort of their own making, the storms raging outside, Hajime thinks to allow himself to bask in this.

“I’d throw you at them any damn time,” Hajime tells him. “One less trouble tormenting me every day.”

“Mean, Iwa-chan!”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“ _I’m in love with you_ ,” comes the other confession, in the haze of downpours and blanket forts and drifting off to chase dreams.

Oikawa's probably mumbling in his sleep, Hajime decides.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“ _I’m in love with you.”_

They don't talk about it, in the morning or the days to come.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“How long have you guys known each other now?” Hanamaki asks around chewing his lunch, chopsticks directed at them like a host’s microphone to the guest stars.

Oikawa wrinkles his nose at the their new friend’s messiness. He himself has got crumbs from his milk bread clinging to the tip of it, Hajime notices. It's a nice nose. “ _Ew_. Chew and swallow, Makki.”

“Makki.” Hanamaki taps his chopsticks against the corner of his blue-and-yellow bento box. He grins. “A bit too soon for that, but I like it.”

“Too soon?” Matsukawa pipes up, gaze finally taking a respite from his novel. “It's not like this is _a dating thing_.”

“Aww, you're just jealous, you caterpillar-eyebrows.”

“Okay, I veto you from making any nicknames.” Matsukawa's chuckle is light, and easy. He slips a bookmark between the pages and closes the paperback. “That's lame, more so when you consider your non-existent ones.”

“If anything, it's Oikawa you gotta watch out for,” Hajime warns. “Gods, the names he’s come up with.”

At this, Oikawa offers a troublemaker's grin to match Hanamaki’s all-teeth smile and Matsukawa's slacker posture. “You’re getting a cute name, too, _Mattsun_.”

The newly christened boy blinks back at him, languidly surprised, and Hanamaki snorts out a laugh.

“Mat _tsun_ ,” Hanamaki repeats. “That's just _cutesy_.”

“That's...not as bad as I’d feared.”

“Mat _tsun_ ,” he cites again. “ _Tsun tsun_. Maybe you’re also a tsundere under all that hair.”

Matsukawa purses his lips, more in mock contemplation than something disagreeing, and leans forward to take a bite of Hanamaki's tamagoyaki for himself just as the latter is bringing it up to his mouth. It's perhaps the first time Hanamaki looks so genuinely appalled.

“Hey! We just met, so save the food-stealing for second base!” To this, they all join in the levity. Matsukawa leans against the high wire-fence bordering Seijoh's rooftop and opens up his novel, but Hajime thinks he's keeping both ears out for more opportunities to quip in. Hajime keeps a grin to himself; for a _first day_ , this might be the best one they’ve had.

“But really, the childhood friends thing—how long?”

Hajime picks at his rice, pickled radishes nudged aside because _old habits die hard_. Oikawa sets the package of milk bread down on his lap with the crinkling of plastic, and raises both hands to head-level, palms forward, fingers splayed like he might reveal unexpected things with a casual _ta-da!_ “Ten years,” he gives voice to the number, smile all bright of the rarest kind. “We’ve been best friends since we were five.”

“And I’ve been suffering for ten years too long,” Hajime adds, to that.

A gasp. “Iwa-chan!”

Hajime rolls his eyes, reaches out to wipe those pesky crumbs off Oikawa's nice nose, and watches as Oikawa preens even more at his attentiveness. When he returns to his lunch and shoots a glance at their fellow yearmates, Hanamaki is looking at him with a strange sort of unreadable expression.

“What?” Hajime asks, out of curiosity rather than anything accusing.

“Ah.” Hanamaki shakes his head, taps with his chopsticks again. “Nothing, nothing.”

Matsukawa hums low. “I think you might be a tad jealous, Makki. There's something about friends like that, you know? Someone who gets to know you inside-out and still chooses to stick around.”

 _There is_ , thinks Hajime.

“Not that far off from marriage, I’d say,” Hanamaki mentions, all unceremonious, and that has Oikawa choking on air and spluttering. And Hajime—

He just.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He smacks Oikawa on the back, makes sure his friend isn't suffocating, and tells Hanamaki to back off from comparing them to the likes of _old-married couples_.

Hanamaki snaps his fingers, says, “ _That_ was the term I was looking for,” and exudes teasing-natured amusement at how it renders Oikawa lost for words.

It doesn't matter, Hajime decides. They won't ever be near that sort of relationship, anyway.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 _Best friends_ is enough. This is enough.

Hajime stops touching Oikawa's face, after that.

(He can't risk contaminating him.)

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

(

It's an effort not to.

)

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

As it was with a certain confession, they don't talk about it. At seven and ten, Oikawa might've confronted Hajime on the matters of _cheek kisses_ and _holding hands_  respectively. He might've hid a bout of crying when Hajime had snapped at his persistence and spurned him; but in the span of these years, they’ve grown up a little and too much at once. Branches spread out so they might deliver without words, with side glances and the ghost of touches, and roots dig deep enough to prevent landslides.

It could also be the futility of exercising wishful thinking, that they’ve stopped insisting on breaking the world so they may fit in it, but Hajime likes to think of the former. It's the way he knows when to use threats and the likes of _Shittykawa_ , points out Oikawa’s falsity of smiles, and shoves him off when he’s being _terribly clingy_ or lets him stay and monopolize Hajime's lap for a power nap (because gods know Oikawa needs all the rest he could get). It's how Oikawa faces Hajime's stubbornness, nitpicks at the right time and things in the _Oikawa Tooru_ ’s way that raises Hajime’s blood pressure through the roof but is effective nonetheless.

These touches remain, if not to persist, for reasons neither of them is sure. Perhaps it's some perk of Oikawa’s string of transient girlfriends that they’re waved off under the superficial scheme of things, and Hajime wonders if it's what Oikawa’s been after all along.

Because if it _isn't_ , as long as it’s a girl's hand Oikawa's holding, Hajime can selfishly redeem himself.

This is what he mulls over as he's lingering outside of the Oikawas’ residence for the walk to school. Back against the high border and buds of his earphones plugged in, he peers up at the steel blue of an early morning sky, the sheen of pinkish-gold like cheeks not kissed, and the shy peek of sunlight outlining the sparse clouds. It feels gentle, unhurried, in contrast to how _mornings_ usually go most days of the week. Oikawa loves things like this. He likes preening up at the sky in general, the infinite of it, chirpy as a bird at dawn, but has always been weak when it's got all sort of colors.

Hajime prefers the summer sort himself, boundless sea of blues and white clouds smeared across in places. It's a nice mix to the robust green grass and trees. Simplest colors of nature. _A boy of summer_ , Oikawa says, and it's one thing Oikawa's called him that he doesn't deny outright.

A click of a front door opened prompts his attention. Oikawa's jogged up to the gate as Hajime pulls one earbud out, and all Oikawa has to do is look up to see the offering. His smile does nothing to cover up the bags under his eyes. Not to Hajime.

Hajime clicks his tongue. “Did you even get any sleep?”

Oikawa hums, settles the bud into his left ear, and gives an approving nod at BTS’s _Dope_ thrumming from it. He wouldn't stop gushing about the boy band so Hajime went into a spree downloading a shit ton of their songs over the past couple of days. Oikawa fails to compose his entire surprise, some dorky grin and excitement slipping through, and Hajime deems it was a task worth this. “Are you my mom, Iwa-chan?”

At whatever face Hajime's making, Oikawa holds up both hands in mock-surrender. “Don't worry”—he gives an _okay_ sign—“I’m a-okay—top notch, even! We have a practice match with Datekou today, after all.”

To this, Hajime sighs, flicks Oikawa on the forehead, and goes to march down the street, Oikawa fumbling to keep them connected by the tangle of earphone wires. He spots no limp in Oikawa’s right knee from the way he regains his balance, graceful as a cat.

“Did you pull an all-nighter reviewing Datekou's DVD matches?”

“Well, they do have the best blockers in the prefecture.” He catches up to Hajime, turning to gaze down at him.

Hajime thinks of the increasing centimeters between them, the growing height his earphones has to cover. This is the boy Hajime spent most of his childhood protecting, from grade school bullies or superstitious _youkai_ tales or a house that wasn't the best place to come home to. And he's grown into something so fierce.

( _Don't leave me behind_ , comes another selfish thought.

 _“I’ll catch up with you,”_ he tells the stratosphere instead, because for all his love of the sky, Oikawa might actually conquer it, and it'd be a damn shame if Hajime isn't there with him for that, too.)

“Overworking yourself won't help us win,” Hajime says, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants. It's always chilly this time of the day. “And if you push yourself outside of practice, Ayako-san will think she’s lost to your love for volleyball.”

“Ah!” Oikawa beams and clasps the both of his palms together. “Aya-chan said she was making me lunch today,” he gushes out.

He calls everyone _-chan_ ; there’s really no logical reason why Hajime wants it to be more reserved, _special_ , and _Iwa-chan_ still grates his nerves, anyway. “She’s a nice girl. She deserves better.”

“Hey, I heard that!” Oikawa huffs. “ _Rude_.”

Hajime breathes out a chuckle. “Does she know you're allergic to shrimps?”

“I forgot about that,” muses Oikawa, and Hajime thinks she doesn't know Oikawa won't eat tomatoes unless it's grilled in the right way, either. That he likes his rice overcooked a bit, so it's softer and reminds him of the porridge Hajime's grandma spoiled them with when they got sick as kids (even if Hajime always fights him on how _gross_ the texture is). That she won't recognize the subtle differences between Oikawa’s _I like you_ and _I love you_ smiles (because as much as Oikawa likes to believe he's fixing a front in place of the latter, Hajime’s come to know the both of them). “But we’ll get around. Don't be such a downer.”

“I’m making sure Seijoh isn’t losing its future-captain to something like shellfish allergy.”

“Iwa-chaaan.” He grins, slightly dopey. The playlist switches to another of his favorite song. “Is that a compliment I hear from you? You put that much trust in me?”

“I trust our teammates to pick the best.”

There's a glint in Oikawa's eyes. Something afire. “Does that mean you think I’m the best, Iwa-chan?”

Hajime ponders over this, _but not too long_ , and not with the slightest halt in his steps. “Dumbass,” he just says, because Oikawa will know. He lengthens his strides, _itching to move_ , for some reason, and tells himself to keep Oikawa on his toes.

Oikawa's taller, though, and Hajime's reminded that Oikawa knows him as much as the other way around, the paths through niches old and new, _two pillars supporting one another’s burdens_ , as he catches up without a hitched breath. Hajime sighs into the cup of his hands and lets them fall by his sides. Their hands brush, seeking warmth by the grazes.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Matsukawa tries the name one day during the haze of post-practice. “Hey, Tooru!”

Oikawa's been bouncing a volleyball off of his fingertips. At the call, his rhythm flatters, the ball misses his setting hands to smack him straight on the forehead, his yelp complementing quite the comical display. From the benches, three pairs of eyes watch the almost-never-seen stumble.

“What is this you’ve awaken, Mattsun?” Hanamaki crows. “A name kink?” he asks, and at the bluntness of things, Hajime once again questions his choice of friends just two trimesters into this friendship.

“I’m wondering about names. Nicknames,” Matsukawa says. “Between the four of us, Oikawa is the only one left out.”

“You're right. This is a tragedy.”

“I call him names sometimes,” Hajime pipes in.

“Nah,” dismisses Hanamaki. “Shittykawa or Assikawa just doesn't have that ring to it, not like Iwa-chan, or Mattsun and Makki.”

Oikawa's returned the ball into the cart and marched toward them, flushed in the face from more than physical exertion. He puffs out his cheeks, like he does when he's trying to hold in embarrassment, flicks at his hair, and goes to fashionably refute any accusation Hanamaki has of him.

“ _Tooru_ isn't really a nickname, though,” Hajime says to Matsukawa when the other two continue on with their bicker-teasing. For once, Oikawa seems to be losing, getting more flustered as Hanamaki barrages him with wilder and weirder innuendos. He’s a chronic flirt, an incurable teaser, and he probably has the most dating experience compared to anyone else in their year. And yet he’s also like this.

“ _Tooru-chan_?”

“You sound like one of his fans.”

Matsukawa leans back on his hands. “Well, as his longest friend, you have the most right to bless him with a new nickname.”

Hajime peers at the boy in question. Hanamaki has his thumb and forefinger pinched together, inserting the index finger of his other hand through the circle gap, and Hajime watches as the implications dawn on Oikawa by how his eyes widen and jaw goes slack. He laughs through the ruddiness of his cheeks and waves off the gesture. He shakes his head, like Hanamaki’s showing him a childish jest.

“That isn't such a bad idea.”

When Oikawa comes close to tripping down the stairs and bashing his skull open the next day, they agree that whatever it is, _Tooru_ shouldn't be part of it for now.

(“This isn't a kink. This is a _squick_ ,” Hanamaki whispers. Matsukawa stares at him, face much too composed; Oikawa squawks; and Hajime decides he doesn't need to know any more than that.)

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

On the week before their exams in December, Oikawa gives him a hedgehog.

“Oikawa, what the hell.”

“Say hello, Iwa-chan. Don't be shy!”

At the sight, Hajime's mother smiles at the both—the _three_ —of them, standing by his bedroom's door with hands on her hips, somewhat proud-looking. Hajime glances at her, incredulous. _Are you involved in this._

_Yes, yes we are._

“You've been studying _all week_ ,” Oikawa observes. Hajime's mother closes the door, letting them sort things out. “So auntie and I decided to intervene.”

“Isn't this counterproductive?”

“Nope. I talked to nee-san and auntie, did research on my own, and it turns out having something to take care of reminds people to take care of themselves.”

And Hajime's about to argue back at this, that maybe someone else he knows would have better use of this kind of thing—particularly someone who tends to push and hurt himself, who already has a track record of doing so in the past—but Oikawa's gaze steels, the joke of the gift fleeing as fast as it came. “You haven't been sleeping,” Oikawa ticks off the list. “You’ve been holed up in the library during breaks. There's less power in your serves and spikes, and you're lagging behind on our runs”—Hajime has been letting him win one too many times, just by a few seconds—“Plus, you haven't been paying attention on our movie nights!” He huffs at the last part, as if it's _the most serious offence_.

When Hajime hasn't replied, he cradles the small carrier he’s holding to his chest. “This is Hoshiko,” he introduces. “Because she's prickly. Like _you_ , Iwa-chan.”

“What does _star child_ have anything to do with being prickly?”

“Well, because stars look like they have prickly points.”

Hajime snorts out a chuckle. He feels the beginning of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, anyway. “You just wanted to name her that, dumbass.”

Oikawa gives up a grin, unusually sheepish, and prompts Hajime to hold the carrier. He pads past Hajime in his alien-socked feet (a Christmas gift from Hajime some years ago) and goes to dig into the boxes at the foot of Hajime's bed. _Hoshiko’s Care Package_ , Hajime finally reads the words scribbled on the biggest one, in none other than Oikawa's handwriting, alongside doodles of chibis—of _them_ —and hedgehogs and five-pointed stars in constellations. For all the hurried way he writes ( _“The teachers always talk too fast, Iwa-chaaan.”_ ), these drawings have always been detailed. Like he’s treasuring the small moments captured in graphite and ink, he takes care to convey as much as he can (because Oikawa might talk _a lot_ but memories fail with each recollection, and this is one act of preserving). If Hajime were to measure the distances and angles between his stars, they wouldn't stray far from the real numbers.

“We’ll set up her home together,” Oikawa tells him. “It's not the fanciest thing but we got one that'd keep her happy. It's got a wheel, a hiding place, and tunnels for her to play in. Oh, and the litter box.” He scrunches up his nose. “A necessary evil, I guess.”

Hajime follows his steps. He crouches beside him, careful not to jostle the sleeping Hoshiko, and skims over the habitat's parts laid out for assembly (of course Oikawa would pick the colorful one. Not that Hajime minds). Over the rustling plastic and clanking of metal frames, Hajime remarks, “I’m not like you, you know.” He sets the carrier down, staves off the urgent want to play with the resident for later, and helps Oikawa with the little pieces. “I can take care of myself pretty well.”

“Of course you aren't me,” Oikawa affirms, burying his nose into the instruction manual once he finds it. “You aren't as smart or handsome as me, or else you wouldn't have to study this much.”

It's getting late, and Hajime's been sleeping five hours per day since the start of the week, and today's volleyball practice had really wrung him out. Despite the rush of energy fueling him right now, he deems those to be the reasons Oikawa manages to dodge his hit. And he doesn't want to cause a ruckus and end up waking Hoshiko, anyway.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Half an hour and a half-constructed habitat later (abandoned for an impromptu wrestling match, pillow fights included), Hoshiko wakes up.

“She's so small,” Hajime says in awe, all attention on the way she huddles in the gentlest cup of his hands.

(He _does not_ coo. That's Oikawa's thing.)

Oikawa snickers, if a bit wary of the animal. “See! Just like you, Iwa-chan!”

It takes a lot of chasing and yelling but Hajime, in all his sleep-deprived glory, manages to pin him down under his weight. He lets Hoshiko loose on Oikawa's back, right near the ticklish area of his neck. The rest is lost to Oikawa's shrieks, his eventual laughter, Hajime joining him soon enough in the lightest feeling.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They fall asleep in a pile of tangled limbs and rumpled clothes, spent from _laughing_ , of all things, too content to lay out the extra futon. Hajime’s coming down from the adrenaline of such feat, _a tickle fight for the ages_ , silly as it sounds, and at the beginning he dreams in millisecond flashes that obey no consistency of time, switching between awareness and back just as quick and endless. A hedgehog's wheel spins, creaky. There's a weight clinging to him, crushing his ribs, soft strands of hair tickling at his jaw. But it’s awfully warm, pleasantly blistering, and Hajime really should never do this not-sleeping thing ever again; he's bringing up his arms to press Oikawa closer to him, and Oikawa just nuzzles into the curve of his shoulder, like taking a nap on the bus ride home after wins and losses, like it's something natural; _this is wrong_ , and he can’t think to let go.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_“Auntie, can I marry Iwa-chan when we grow up?”_

_Hajime freezes. He doesn't wrench away from Tooru’s hold on the crook of his arm. Tooru just stares through his too-long bangs up at Hajime’s mother, and Hajime can only thank any deity that would listen that his father isn't here to witness this as well._

_Her expression twists strangely, amusement trickled with concern. Hajime’s stomach wrings itself by a dreadful lurch. “What are you saying, Tooru-kun?”_

_Hajime’s mother looks at Tooru like he's something contaminated, like she's considering pulling them away from each other so Hajime isn't infected._

_But no. No. Hajime's the dirty one, who likes to kiss Tooru's cheeks and lets him swing their hands to and fro on the way to school, who_ really likes _to hear Tooru laugh, withstands his silly schemes and nicknames so he can experience more of it. Hajime likes it even more, when he pries a genuine one from him, the sort of smile that crinkles his warm-brown eyes like the one Tooru first gave him at their perch on a swing set; those giggles that has him covering his mouth with the spread of a hand, cheeks ruddy from the generous force of it, like he can't believe he's this happy._

_Tooru is good, Tooru likes girls. He says they're cute, too, and likes to make them blush and smile. He’s kind to them; teasing, still, because that's just how he is, but he makes them happy. Hajime is not special. He hopes he won't ever be._

_He fakes a scoff. Hajime isn’t good at lying. “Tooru’s been watching too many dramas again,” he says, and the other boy detects the waver in his tone, tenses up a little at it, but he doesn't let a frown come on to his face._

_“I have not!” Tooru purses his lips. “Space documentaries are cooler, anyway. But what's wrong about it? Iwa-chan likes to be with me and I lov—”_

_Hajime pinches the tender skin on the inner side of Tooru’s elbow, harder than the usual banter, but Tooru takes it with an almost completely muffled whimper. Hajime should be worried about how he handles pain so well. “There's a meteor shower tonight,” he lies. Tooru bites back his protest at their codeword. “Tooru and I want to watch from the hillside by the park. Can we go out for a while, okaasan?”_

_Her smile is a bit lopsided, and there's a wariness in her eyes that Hajime fears won't go away anytime soon. “Of course,” she concedes. After a moment of hesitation, she goes to ruffle their hair. The gesture feels just normal. “Come back before it's too late, okay? And don't get lost.”_

_As they're leaving, the front door moving to shut behind them, Tooru, huddled in a colorful patterned scarf so unlike the bland sweatshirt he’d worn so long ago, just whispers for her to miss, “We’ll always find each other when we're lost, anyway.”_

_Hajime says nothing, to that._

_(On the way, he lets go of Tooru's hand.)_


	2. Sirius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we have chapter titles Σ(･ω･ﾉ)ﾉ！ ~~i swear they maybe have deeper meanings.~~
> 
> thanks to Jazz, Kat, and French for beta'ing and helping me figure out this chapter!

They've been staring at him ever since morning practice.

“Okay,” Hajime interrupts the lingering awkwardness during lunch break, though it seems he's the only one feeling such. They’re in Hajime’s classroom today, because the season is _still uncooperative_ for their usual gathering on the rooftop, and it makes itself known by billowing gusts against windowpanes and a persistent January snowfall. They’ve had to drag Oikawa away from all the snow gathered on the rooftop. “Did Oikawa stick a note to my back again? Are there marker doodles on my face? Why are you guys looking at me like that?”

“Yeah, there's a dick on your cheek,” Hanamaki drawls, but Matsukawa just shakes his head before Hajime can extensively plan Oikawa's _and_ Hanamaki’s murders.

“You’ve been—brighter.”

“We’ve passed the hell week. Of course everyone’s livelier.”

“Not you, though. Not exactly that.”

“You’ve heard how new mothers have _that glow_?” Hanamaki gestures unhelpfully. “ _You have that glow_.”

Matsukawa nods along, like they’re completing each other’s sentences. And, well. Hajime’s an only child living in a house occupied by just the closest blood-relatives, cousins and the likes some cities or prefectures away, so he hasn't got the opportunity to observe such phenomenon up-close. A similar case might be when Oikawa's sister would come to visit her hometown: once to introduce her husband and disclose their discreet marriage, and another to announce her pregnancy (and, when asked by Oikawa and Hajime, amusedly explain _how it works_ )—and that was that. When she decided on a surprise party to celebrate Oikawa's winning the _Best Setter_ award, and told the news of _moving closer_ so she could _watch out for her other two favorite boys_ , Oikawa Takeru was already a bustling four-year-old.

 _Oikawa Tooru_ pops up next, intrusive as always. (Hajime lets him linger, anyway.) He's not sure why his setter would come into thought, but it might be that _glow_ is a fitting adjective for the likes of Oikawa Tooru, _star in the making_ , not the slightest bit afraid to showcase his hard-earned skills. Oikawa hasn't joined their group yet, either asking the third-year setter for another quick tossing lesson or getting caught in a traffic of admirers.

 _Speak of the devil_ , Hajime thinks when Oikawa strolls into the classroom not a beat later, giving his trademark smile and a wave over his shoulder for a passing acquaintance. He finds them by the windows, shoots a smile that warms the chilly classroom into something pleasantly bearable (but that's just Hajime's wistful longing for summery temperatures, surely), and skips over to their joined tables.

“You know,” Matsukawa says, “every time he sees you, he looks like a puppy.”

“If he had a tail, he’d be wagging it right now,” Hanamaki agrees.

“What? Oikawa?” Hajime asks, amused, because chaotic-evil Oikawa is the farthest personality from an innocent puppy and they all know better. That's the extent of his question, when Oikawa drags a nearby chair close, _much too close_ , to sit on it backward, and Hajime has enough reflex trained over the years to snatch his own lunch away from Oikawa's thieving hands.

Instead of pouting or whining how Hajime is depriving him of precious nutrients, he _beams_ at him. “You're positively glowing today, Iwa-chan.”

“There's your proof,” Hanamaki remarks around a bite of cream puff.

“You guys have noticed,” Oikawa gushes. “I’m so proud. I’ve trained you all well.”

Hajime flicks at his insufferable forehead. “ _Trashykawa_ —keep a hold on your inflated ego.”

He’s still grinning, anyway, the dumbass. “Iwa-chan's an open book.”

“Oh, he is,” affirms Hanamaki. “Heart on his sleeve, such a pure guy,” he adds, and Hajime purses his lips and frowns, somehow feeling ganged up on.

“You have yet beat 'this guy’ in arm-wrestling, Hanamaki.”

“Do you know why, though?” Matsukawa casually brings the topic back when Hajime and Hanamaki just start rolling their sleeves up for the fourteenth rematch. “Did our dear Iwaizumi get someone special recently?”

Oh, he does not like that gleam in Oikawa's eyes one bit.

“Iwa-chan’s got _a girl,_ in fact.”

Matsukawa raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“ _Oh_?” Hanamaki joins the fray.

“Yup!”

“Oikawa,” Hajime growls out the warning, even if it never works because Oikawa’s always had a shitty sense of self-preservation.

“She's a cutie,” Oikawa rambles on. “Tiny but fierce, and a bit of a meany. She's also spiky and prickly like Iwa-chan here—”

Hajime clamps a hand on Oikawa's face. “Hoshiko,” he asserts, before further damage is done, and resists the urge to facepalm himself. _Of course._ “He’s talking about Hoshiko.”

“Hm. He’s not completely wrong, in that regard,” says Matsukawa.

Hanamaki reaches over to pat Hajime's shoulder. “Congratulations, Iwaizumi-kun. You’ve officially become a dad.”

“You're _glowing_ with it.”

“Just so you know, all your pictures with Hoshiko are saved for posterity in our secret group chat.”

“Ah, those. I think the most recent one, _‘Hoshiko asleep on top of Iwa-chan's unruly head’_ , is a brilliant candid. Oikawa should consider photography as a side hobby.”

“Wait. _Pictures_?”

Something moist and totally on the wrong side of warm coats the soft part of his palm. Hajime jerks his hand back from Oikawa's traitorous mouth, turning to glare at him; he finds the other boy's grin tapered down to _something glowing_ , too, if not brighter, and he settles to ease the urge to reach out by kneading the sides of Oikawa's head with utmost violence. Under the hearty assault, Oikawa just chuckles, airy like some unbothered summer’s breeze, and Hajime thinks to attribute the heat on his own face to the unexpected fiasco of _candid photos_ and the changing seasons.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

(

Hajime will find and confiscate all evidence, damnit.

)

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Unlike the Kitagawa Daiichi debacle, this time it's a slow drift, a deceptive fall, unnoticed until the strained joints and muscle tears accumulate into something breakable. _Twenty more minutes_. _Ten more serves_. _Just a kilometer farther_.

Steady snowfalls can still cripple a city.

Nothing too much at once, because there are higher places to reach, after all, and Oikawa's learned better, yet Hajime can't deny it has its catalyst. For being the one who chides other people to take care of themselves, Oikawa Tooru is a giant hypocrite. There's no official match in the few coming months (not ones they're participating in)—he’s simply panicking. A first year comes to a close, and the next one would start in the blink of spring break, new first-years and fresh faces to join their team. On their old team, a certain prodigy climbs one year closer to challenge them again.

“Twenty more minutes,” Oikawa insists for the fourth time tonight. He says this without meeting Hajime's eyes, not a bribe of peace signs or _pleeease_ or trying to charm him with a wink and a pout (whose insincerity is more irritating than anything charming), or a promise to not steal Hajime’s lunch the following day (like Hajime hasn't always shared half of it), and this is when Hajime knows _that's enough_.

When Oikawa also omits the sharp-edged smile, his determined, _stubborn_ gaze, _I’ll take us to the top_ , Hajime knows there are other things else at play.

“Spit it out before I aim a spike at your head again.”

In return, Oikawa has the decency to hesitate with his next serve. He slaps the ball against the floor, catching it in its upward flight. He spins it, the white-red-green blurring like watercolors.

“I don't want to go home yet. I can't listen to okaasan,” Oikawa tells him. “She's got noon shifts now so she’ll be home at night.”

“So stay at mine for a while. Like we always do.”

“How long?”

“...What?”

“How long can we keep doing this?” He punctuates it with a chuckle. “Ah,” he breathes. “We’re getting a little too old for sleepovers like that.”

The last time, Hajime had woken up to Oikawa lying on top of him, his own hands wrapped around the other's waist, the hem of Oikawa's NASA shirt dragged up sometime in the night so he felt the heat and broadness of a muscled back. He’d shoved the still drowsy Oikawa onto the floor. His mother's _good morning_ from beyond the room had sent him reeling, drumming in his ears along his erratic pulse. _“We shouldn't sleep on one bed,”_ he’d said later. Oikawa's face had been unreadable, but Hajime couldn't bring himself to look in the first place.

 _We're getting a little too old for that._ It's just how Oikawa prefers to rationalize these things (because Hajime's never given him reasons, has never wanted to), but Hajime can't ignore the traces of resentment in it.

“Don't be a dumbass,” Hajime retorts. _Who's the hypocrite here, Iwa-chan?_ “I’m stuck with you all day long—have been for ten years and counting—and this isn't all that different—”

“You don't get to do that,” Oikawa hisses. There's resentment in his look. Confusion. Something lost, and at the vulnerable honesty of it Hajime plants his heels to the floor so he doesn't instinctively reach out. “‘Not that different’. ‘This won't change us’. You don't get to have your pick when you're so afraid of staying close as when we were kids. You don't get to choose what changes and what doesn't, when you're the one who’s afraid of it, and you pull away from me, from us.”

He breathes in. Teeth gnaws at a bottom lip and nails dig into the volleyball. Hajime sees the five-year-old again. “What are we, Iwa-chan?”

At this, after several seconds of a stand-off, Hajime glances down at the ball in his own grip, the whiteness of his fingertips from the pressure of it. _What are we?_

 _We're together_ , and of course there are many kinds of _together_ , different kinds, some more declarative than others. Hajime had always kissed Oikawa's cheeks when they were red and stinging. In turn, Oikawa had pasted band-aids over Hajime’s post-adventures nicks and scratches with paramount care. He’d always buried Hajime in soothing blankets when there was a storm outside, _Godzilla_ films played loudly on a borrowed laptop for further distractions.

Something’s changed from those simple times. (Kisses came with the fear of being caught, holding hands switched from a comfort to dreadful by the flit of others’ glances, and _Tooru_ devolved to a call with the promise of unpleasant words and stinging cheeks.) There are a lot of tectonic shifts, some minute and others knee-jerk, but with time all sure to create new valleys and hills: like how when Hajime touches his best friend _too close_ his chest feels like burning itself to ashes with warmth; how the way Oikawa looks at him has slowly differentiated, from that starry-eyed admiration to fleeting glances Hajime can't read or keep up with; how countless other small actions don't _quite_ generate the same expected results.

He turns toward the court, sight at the net and the view beyond, and throws the ball high up for a service ace. He goes for the run-up and jumps, unsteady in the standstill but sure in this motion. The sting of hitting the serve is ever familiar, grounding, and he lands from the flight with something instinctive. They'd been together before things like volleyball entered the picture, and ten years is more than enough for divergences. (Yet—he’s determined from early on that some parts of them should preserve, rightfully persist, though which ones, he hasn't figured it out.)

“We’re best friends,” Hajime decides to say—it doesn't solve anything. But it also doesn't abolish. “My best friend is having trouble at home so I offer him a place to stay. Even when I’m too stupid to say it, he’s always welcomed there.”

This might be a different brand of _together_ , one that Hajime can't or won't pinpoint. Because it's not like the simplicity of a trek through forests, or their restless wanderlust for things to do and places to explore, but it is still the two of them: _Hajime and Tooru_ , and they might as well ought to be through it together.

Oikawa opens his mouth, Adam’s apple bobbing with words to say. He mashes his lips shut.

“Iwa-chan, youdummy.” He scoffs, that _Oikawa Tooru_ ’s huff, bounces the ball again a few times, and passes it to Hajime with a powerful serve (and he calls Hajime a brute, when _he_ 's this ruthless). Hajime intercepts with a receive as Oikawa takes his position as the setter. Oikawa catches the ball, tosses to Hajime in a flawless set-up, _dead on_ , and Hajime's spike thunders throughout the gym’s spaces.

“Fifteen more minutes,” Oikawa insists. In this instance, despite the declaration of _best friends_ , Hajime feels he has less say ( _less right_ ) in the matter.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You know better than that,” Hajime says later, as they loiter by the vending machines in front of a small store, addressing _ten more serves_ and the likes. He pops open his can of _C. C. Lemon_ and goes for a refreshing gulp, despite Oikawa's accusing screech at the crippling sourness of the drink. _“No wonder you're such a sourpuss, Iwa-chan!”_

“Who was it, again,” he continues, the fizziness swallowed like a bitter memory, “that gave me _hell_ for blaming my mistimed spike for our loss in the Newcomer's Tournament?”

At this, Oikawa just contemplates the choices of melon or blueberry _Ramune_. “It's different,” comes the answer.

An automatic voice thanks them for their purchases with a cheery lilt, a humble show of LED lights, and one more carbonated drink is unsealed.

“You can't change what's happened,” Oikawa says, to no one in particular. “There were other factors that went into the making of that of that spike, but I can change the future. _I can get better_.”

 _Well, you're not alone on that_ , because that’s what has been plaguing Hajime ever since, too.

 _I can get better_ , so Hajime's practiced harder. _We’ll win the next match_ , and they do, until the final rounds put them against even more powerful foes. _I can change the future_ , he muses, when he finds Oikawa unable to go to his own home, and thinks to build one for him, instead.

With jaws set, Hajime puts his half-full can on the adjacent bench, calls out, “Oikawa,” and guides the other boy around to face him by a firm hold on the shoulders. Oikawa just blinks down at him (damn that extra height, when Hajime used to be the taller one), eyes still always wide like a childhood's innocence (even if he's nothing short of _a menace_ ). Before he can utter an insult to Hajime’s mere one-hundred and seventy-six centimeters, Hajime mercilessly headbutts him on the face, hard enough that he crashes back onto a vending machine.

“Ow! What was that for?!”

Oikawa’s voice is muffled as he covers the bruised bridge of his nose, a spilled _Ramune_ held out at arm-length. Through the looming tension, he still does that nose-scrunch thing at the darkening stains in his uniform, _that damn nice nose of his_ , and Hajime must've hit himself a tad too rough to think of such a trivia now.

“You dumbass,” Hajime says. “Jerkface. Asshole. _Shittykawa_ —”

“Are those really necessary?! And don't shorten your insults!”

“ _Shitty Oikawa_ —”

“Not that either!”

But they're cut short, for better or worse, when the store's owner comes barreling out with a duster held high and a rebuke for _noisy, dawdling teenagers_ at the top of his aged lungs. He swings at them like they're yowling street cats, and they might as well be with how they sprint the hell out of there. Hajime’s _C. C. Lemon_ is left astray, and Oikawa’s splashed some of his drink onto Hajime in favor of running ahead, _as if_ Hajime will let him run off that easily; he just catches up until they jostle shoulders. Behind them, an old man wails about the bleak outlook of this century’s generation.

 _A getaway_ turns into _a race_ , because at fifteen it's not like they've learned any better to stay still. They meander through roads of a suburban night, the sleepy neighborhoods, this hilly side of Sendai, and count the streetlights to be their improvised check marks. Their steps echo to fill the silent spaces, the gaps between rows of the houses and alleyways and cul-de-sacs, and the rumbling wind triumphs over cicadas’ songs. With only the two of them out at this ungodly hour, a round moon and speckles of stars the ever-present audiences, they might conquer this part of the city.

(But that's sort of conceited of them.

Hajime thinks of the National stage, the peaks of even higher mountains that reach for the stratosphere, like the one named after the residents of a certain Mount Olympus; for the both of them, perhaps a city won't be enough.)

“I win.” Hajime pants, a hand planted on one of the two streetlamps guarding the beginning of a crossroad, partly to lean against it as he steadies his breaths. Oikawa, _I-need-more-power-for-my-serves-and-forget-cardio-training Oikawa_ , has no oxygen left for such hassle after today's extra hundred serves.

He plops down on the asphalt, resting back on his hands and face tilted to the clouds. “Haah,” he breathes out, and straightens up to stretch, reaching skyward. “You're a cardio gorilla, Iwa-chan.”

“Your power alone isn't everything,” Hajime tells him when they’ve regained some air. “That’s what you don't like about Ushiwaka, right? He focuses on individuals’ strengths, but you know there’s a team on the court.”

 _There are the two of us, always_ ; on this, perhaps Hajime needs to remind himself as much.

(So they're never alone, not really.)

“Such wisdom, Iwa-chan! You’ve truly become a dad.”

Oikawa's smiling, anyway. _I might just feel invincible_ , the simmer in his gaze proclaims, and Hajime's just says right back, _As long as I’m here, you are._

“You’re turning into an old man, Iwa-chan. You should stop thinking too much!”

“ _Come here so I can kill you_.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

(

This is okay for now.

They have ten years at their back and more decades ahead.

They have time.

)

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Aya-chan broke up with me,” Oikawa says after he barges into Hajime’s room and casually flops onto the bed, right before Hajime can say, _Spill_.

Hajime goes to the menu screen and sets the Xbox's controller down. He stands up, legs all pins and needles from an immersive _Overwatch_ session, and crosses the short distance to his bed (what seemed a spacious room when they were kids now starting to fill up). Oikawa's temporary crutches are deposited carelessly over the sheet, and he goes to retrieve them and props them against the wall. “What horrible deeds have you done for her to dump you when you're injured like this?”

“How rude!” Oikawa gripes. Arms raised to the ceiling, he wiggles his fingers. Hajime hurls the volleyball stranded on the floor at him, purposely missing, and lets Oikawa's indignant yelp ease a subtle tension in the both of them.

“You have so low expectations of me.” Oikawa tests the ball with a spin and throws it upward lightly in mock settings. “Look at how nice I am to you even if you’re such a grump.”

“Is that supposed to vindicate you?” Hajime shakes his head. “Nevermind that. What happened? You were together for, what, nine months now? That's more than ten times the usual lifespan.”

"Hm. We broke up before graduating first-year, actually.”

Hajime does the math. “You're a shitty person.”

“Wha—why?!”

“You just are.”

Oikawa halts the ball’s motion, letting it fall onto the cushion landing of the bed. He rolls over to his stomach, cautious for a braced knee. Hands anchor by the elbows and he perches his chin between two spans of lithe fingers, gazing up at Hajime with a cheeky grin that beckons all sorts of troubles. “Are you jealous that you were left out of the loop, Iwa-chan?”

“I knew, dumbass.” Well, he knew Oikawa had acted weirder. “You'd been sending less selfies to the group chat since then,” Hajime points out. “You're an asshole for not telling me or the group earlier.”

“I did?”

“Your narcissism befalls you.”

“Hm-mm.” Oikawa squints in a smile. “And you’re so attentive, Iwa-chan.”

“Why haven't I kicked you out again.”

“Because you _looovee_ me.”

Hajime grabs a pillow and smacks it across Oikawa's face, just to put a dent in that grin.

“Seriously, though,” he says, taking a detour for Hoshiko’s habitat. She's going to be a little grumpy when Hajime wakes her up, but it's only for occasions like this, and he makes a note to offer her extra treats tomorrow in compensation. “Why did you guys break up? And why tell me now?”

“I kissed a boy today.”

She nips at Hajime's skin, which he kind of deserves for tickling her out of a pleasant slumber.He asks for forgiveness by gentle scratches, tempting her with Oikawa's voice—because Hoshiko remembers that his soft hair is the great place for a sleepy hedgehog to nest in—as he tries to string words through the deadening bite of panic. _Get your head together; it's just_ ** _Oikawa_** _._ It's Oikawa, who’d shrieked and bawled when Hajime placed an innocent frog on top of his head, who’d been so insistent to hold Hajime's hand, in spite of all judging eyes, _because we'll always be together, so why not?_ and who clings Hajime even after eleven years of discovering his every flaw.

“A confession?”

Oikawa lies on his back, pinches a strand of his cowlick that’s been displaced by the pillow, and scrutinizes the expanse of the ceiling. “Not exactly.”

There's a false sense of relief when he doesn't search for Hajime's eyes, the twists of expression that show of his unadulterated reaction, whatever it is. Hajime can't say he’s reassured Oikawa won't guess it right, anyway; the fact that Hajime knows Oikawa past all his scripted theatrics means he knows Hajime just the same.

 _But maybe not everything_ , because there are things neither of them has figured out. Because part of being so in-sync with one another is the inability to recognize where one of them ends and the other starts.

“He came up to me while I was getting everyone's water bottles,” Oikawa continues. “He offered to help, and he was so nervous he spilled most of the ones I’d refilled.”

Oikawa had returned with his clothes soaked, this afternoon, and they'd just teased him for his clumsiness with the crutches. Hajime plays with Hoshiko a bit longer, but even she begins to notice something's off with him. “Is he an underclassman? I told you to not bully them, Crappykawa.”

“Iwa-chaaan, you know what a nice person I am.”

Oikawa would've teased the boy about other things until he forgot to be embarrassed of his recent fumble.

“He’s in our year, though. He thought I might like boys. I asked him, _How so?_ and he said he'd guessed. He looked really brave when he said that, not like our cute Watari and Yahaba-kun.”

“I’m pretty sure they can and will kick your ass, once they realize what a horrible personality you have.”

“Mean, Iwa-chan!”

Hoshiko nibbled at his finger again. _Tooru's here._ _Where's the fluffy nest._

“—and I asked him why he said this to me, and he said, _I don't know_. So, we decided to see. If we’d like it, kissing another boy.”

With Hoshiko tucked in cup of his hand, Hajime goes over to his friend. _It's just Oikawa_. He looms above him, grasping the bed sheet to support his own weight, and Oikawa just stares right back at him from the shadow. _It's still Oikawa._ Hajime releases their tiniest friend on Oikawa's forehead, watching the way lines form on his face at the ticklish feeling.

“Do you?” he asks, and hopes it doesn't come out as coarse as he thinks.

Raising a hand to cradle her, Oikawa moves to sit against the wall, giving the hedgehog a lift so she can burrow in his perfectly tousled hair. “I don't know,” he says. Hajime thinks that's an underrated phrase, _I don't know_ , because it is the precursor to every momentous discovery.

“I didn't know him. I learned of his name on the spot.

“I don't dislike it.”

When Oikawa says this, he flips his sight to Hajime's, and Hajime can only admit he does the same. His gaze drifts, perhaps unwittingly, to settle somewhere on the lower half of Hajime's face, and Hajime feels _that burn_ again. Some sort of electric jolts, stuttering the heart before accelerating it to overdrive, and he thinks it might crumble to ashes from the sheer warmth flooding in.

Between the rare stillness, he feels the ghosts of their mingling breaths (but it's just Tooru—it's just them). They're together, _always together_ , sharing belongings and all the time and spaces they can afford, but in this instance they might share the same air as well. He thinks, _It's wrong_ , because there should be a space between them, some kind of distance, a clear-cut boundary where he ends and Oikawa starts; on the spectrum of _together_ , of _like_ , there are uncharted layers they can't breach as who they are.

A thunder by the sound of knocks on his door separates them. They startle, jumping in their own skin, and Hajime just reaches out reflexively to catch Hoshiko as she tumbles from her newfound bed. On the way, the skin of his knuckle grazes one side of Oikawa's cheek, and he really shouldn't think of how warm it is under his millisecond touch.

Oikawa presses his shoulders against the wall like he might want to burrow in, and Hajime's got one foot on the floor when the door goes ajar, his mother's voice tinkling in with invitations for dinner. They reply _yes_ in unison, to which she just chuckles.

 _It's like I have two sons_ , she often declares with motherly pride. _Two wonderful sons_ , and Hajime questions how _wonderful_ they actually are.

He listens to Oikawa and his mother's conversation like he’s underwater.

_“Is your knee healing alright?”_

_“I’ll be a-okay, Auntie. You look beautiful today! The pixie haircut really shines on you.”_

_“Why, thank you. You always know how to flatter a woman, Tooru-kun. I’m going to be jealous of your future wife.”_

He deposits Hoshiko into her habitat. She jumps off from his hand and goes to run on her wheel immediately, probably to blow off steam from twice-over interrupted sleep.

_“Ah, that's so far in the future, Auntie, so let's not speculate.”_

_“Says my number one gossiper. Did you take your painkillers today?”_

Oikawa forgot, but Hajime makes sure he does every day.

_“I missed it today, actually. But thank the gods Iwa-chan was there—he’s so reliable!”_

She lets out a boisterous laugh. _“I’m glad you boys have each other. You're good for Hajime, too, you know? I can't be there to nag him all the time.”_

“I’m right here,” Hajime pipes in with a roll of his eyes. “Your favoritism is showing, okaasan.”

“Aww.” She reaches up to ruffle his hair. “You two will always be my boys. Come down for dinner in an hour, okay? And, Hajime, your father will be home early.”

He only surfaces when her footsteps fade down the stairs. There's the noise of a hedgehog's wheel creaking as it turns and turns. Oikawa shifts around on the bed, extending his leg, wincing at the ache, and Hajime's own heart thuds against his ribcage like the barrier might crack.

He refrains from saying anything like _shouldn't_ , because it's them, and he thinks—perhaps knows—that this might be one of the things that should stay: Oikawa in his room, the ease with which they navigate each other's spaces, past any labyrinth they're inadvertently building.

Hajime stoops over to pluck two Xbox controllers from the floor. He settles at the foot of his bed, leaning back, and tosses one joystick for Oikawa to catch.

“You haven't had your post-breakup gaming marathon yet,” Hajime says.

It takes Oikawa a second longer to reply. “Isn’t it post-exams marathon?”

“Shut up.”

His chuckle is no less soundful. “Mattsun and Makki?”

“I'm going to message them. We can take turns kicking their ass, and while you're playing I’ll watch themkick _your_ ass.”

“Wha—Iwa-chan, why aren’t you on my side?!”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

(

He has not mapped all the dead-ends and hidden corners, and maybe it’d take longer than the lifetime he has, but he knows enough to get to the other side.

There's a scary edge to it, because Oikawa knows the way around to his end of the maze, too, and Hajime isn't sure of the things he keeps in those twists and turns, either.

)

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It's the summer of their second year. And they're dying.

“I’m gonna die,” Hanamaki croaks, clambering up the few remaining steps to the top of the grassy hill. He bemoans the trials and turbulence of teenage athletes, and flops face-down across Matsukawa. Lying on the grass with both arms over his face, Matsukawa might've not passed out already, as he gives up an _oomph_ at the sudden weight.

Hajime wipes the stray water droplets near his mouth, caps his water bottle, and rolls his eyes at their antics. “It's the same as last year.”

“We’re first-string now. It's even more brutal.”

“You’re still one of the top ten with your speed as it is,” Hajime says, recalling the _2 out of 5_ Oikawa had jotted down on Hanamaki's stats sheet.

“Give me a volleyball to spike and I’ll be top five.” Hanamaki groans. He jabs Matsukawa’s chest with an elbow. “Why’re you so bony. You make a terrible pillow.”

“I believe my thighs make pretty excellent pillows, if you want,” says Matsukawa.

“...Good idea,” Hanamaki says. Hajime cocks an eyebrow at the slight pause preceding his reply, noticeable considering how fluent they usually pick up after the other's sentences. Hanamaki crawls over to cushion his head on Matsukawa’s self-proclaimed excellent thighs, closes his eyes, and lets the sound of grass crunching under footfalls be a lullaby, played along their teammates’ weary grunts as they steadily approach the uphill. His face is almost the same color as his hair, and Hajime can't help but wonder if it's entirely from the exertion.

Watari Shinji half-jogs half-wobbles toward them. “Senpai,” he greets, hands clutching his knees as he wheezes. Hajime greets him back. The other two offer their waves from the ground.

Watari turns to the Mattsun-Makki pile. “Matsukawa-san, Coach Irihata called you.”

Matsukawa shifts his cover, squinting at the sparse clouds sheltering them from the worst summer burns. “Alright,” he says. “Makki, get off me.”

“No.”

Matsukawa bends his knees, lazily kicking out his legs to dislodge the other boy. Hanamaki eventually concedes with a grin and shuffles over to sprawl on the grass. Matsukawa huffs, tousles Hanamaki’s hair, the pinkish strands clumped together with sweat and sticking up at odd angles, and he and Watari jog down the incline.

Next to Hanamaki, Hajime sits down and nudges his friend’s cheek with his water bottle.

“Thanks.” Hanamaki doesn’t drink it, goes to press the cooler surface of the bottle to his forehead. Strangely enough, he looks more flushed than when he’d reached the finish line.

They sit in companionable silence, watching fellow club members and players from different schools run up the hill, fetch their own break, some going down like Hanamaki while others just try to catch their breath. Where they are right now isn’t the highest perch, but it still has quite the view. The blue sky bleeds to sunset as the day wanes, the sting of summer noon soothed by cooler, gentler breezes. It's a turbulent season, Hajime thinks—not unlike a certain someone.

“What do you think of Matsukawa?” Hanamaki asks.

Hajime blinks at the suddenness. A frown slides onto his face in musing. “He’s a good middle blocker. Good instinct, and he spots gaps in other teams’ offenses well. He appears nonchalant, which helps them to glance over him at first—”

Hanamaki throws a handful of grass blades at him. “I hate to admit it, but very rarely Oikawa’s right—you have muscles for a brain, specifically trained for volleyball.” He grins at Hajime’s disgruntled expression. “I meant _Matsukawa Issei_ , the guy who sleeps through Japanese Lit. and still aces it, because somehow he manages to read during the walk home from school and not get into any accidents.”

Hajime tilts his head to the side. “You want to figure out how he aces Japanese Lit.?”

“Haha, very funny.” Getting up to his elbows, Hanamaki lightly smacks Hajime’s shoulder. Hajime just gives up a small grin. “Don't act all so innocent. We already have Oikawa for that.”

At the foot of the hill, Matsukawa’s met up with their coach near the entrance to one of the campus’ spacious gyms, pouring over a clipboard along with Oikawa and their captain. “Well, he’s Matsukawa,” Hajime tells him. “The guy has a deadpan look even though he's probably cycling through dirty jokes in his head that fit the situation.”

Hanamaki goes to sit cross-legged, chin propped by a hand as he finds the same scene unfolding. “I might've asked the wrong question,” he muses. “What do you think of Oikawa?” he asks next.

“What's with the out-of-the-blue questions?”

“Beats me.” Hanamaki shrugs. He's still staring at Matsukawa. “You guys have been together for that long, right? Tell us about our future captain.”

 _We’re not_ , is the first thought Hajime has— _We’re not together_ , near defensive, and he's about to voice this before the higher function of his brain kicks in, that of course Hanamaki never meant it that way. He’s been asked about this childhood friends thing many times, their inherent closeness with each other both off and on the court ( _“Those two sync so well, don't they?” “I wonder if they've been friends for a long time.”_ )—so why would he assume of that? He’s never done so, never as a _first response_ , almost _a reaction_ , and it unnerves him enough that he's not prepared to quell the stumble.

“Do you want blackmail material?” he manages, when Hanamaki’s sensed the confusion and turned to face him for the answer with a raised brow.

“That too,” Hanamaki affirms with a snicker, light-hearted in taunting. When he peers at Hajime, it's with something searching, and Hajime just runs with the slip before it becomes _knowing_.

On the ground below, Oikawa catches his gazing. He cranes his neck up to find Hajime, breaking out a smile, cast in the sun’s setting rays like he might be glowing himself, and raises a hand for the over-enthusiastic wave. When Hajime just frowns right back, Oikawa pouts, huffs out a breath like he might be the exasperated one, and sticks his tongue out at him.

“If you have any plan to tone down his ego, I’m in,” Hajime says absentmindedly. His breaths are inaudible, tightly controlled, while the pounding in his chest rebels at the restraints. In contrast, Hanamaki is settled in his usual stance with his back slightly hunched over, still somewhat a slacker outside the court, his eyes half-lidded, like he might not give much care for the world's needless workings—but there's the upward curve of a humbling smile, and Hajime thinks of how he can keep Matsukawa in his sight for so long. He used to be able to do just that, with the other boy who has a penchant for looking up, and he still does, except sometimes it's just _too much_ , all these changes and additions and tectonic shifts. Like there's a new foreign element to their chemistry, and you can't undo the reaction.

Letting their coach and captain mull over the discussion, Matsukawa goes to poke at Oikawa, probably for getting all distracted. Oikawa takes the teasing in stride, a grin and some playful quip at the ready. Their voices shouldn't be within hearing distance; Hanamaki's maybe-smile curls into something wistful, anyway, when Matsukawa gives up a chuckle.

(Hajime just wonders if he's seeing things.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Japanese version of "speak of the devil" is something like "if you do rumors". 
> 
> this is the first time i've written anything this long, so (๑•﹏•)⋆* ⁑⋆* i'd love it if you leave a comment ^^
> 
> i was a bit late in posting this but i wrote [a fluffy iwaoi fic](http://astersandstuffs.tumblr.com/post/159545817699/haikyuu-urban-skyglow) last week??

**Author's Note:**

> it's 4 a.m. here and i can't think so i'll just write the note in list form:  
> \- living in a very religious country, the people i've come to admire are often also homophobic (and not into learning about or supporting lgbtqia+). it creates all sorts of conflicting feelings and that was what got me started writing this fic. it's a really gray area, and i hope i did it okay, but let me know if there are mistakes that need some fixing.  
> \- Hoshiko popped out of nowhere because [this absolutely cute post](http://aunnoo-iwaoi-headcanon.tumblr.com/post/149171295862/iwaoi-pinecone-headcanon-aka-how-you-win-back) subconsciously influenced me.  
> \- and thank you for reading ^^
> 
> please let me know what you think. your kudos/comments/[reblogs](http://astersandstuffs.tumblr.com) are the only feedback i - or any writers - get. they fuel my writing muse (ง •̀_•́)ง


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